


Goring

by darkrogue1 (Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse)



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Medical Procedures, Painplay, The joy of being a sadistic author managing a masochist character, as in Bande-Dessinée S&M, fingering gunshot wounds, no bondage or domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-27 14:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse/pseuds/darkrogue1
Summary: Captain Blake was shot and wounded in the line of duty. (In the arm, through and through without touching the bone - he will recover without lingering effects.) A few days later, he takes the opportunity to fulfill a fantasy, with the help of Professor Mortimer. No violence – but a graphic description of fingering a wound.Beta-read and edited by Blackpenny and Maitimiel





	Goring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lumelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumelle/gifts), [alamerysl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamerysl/gifts).
  * A translation of [Débridé](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583484) by [darkrogue1 (Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse/pseuds/darkrogue1). 



> For Lumelle who asked about the tag “fingering gunshot wounds”: “As in "okay let's make sure there's nothing left in here" fingering or "ohhh baby that feels good" fingering? ”  
> And for Alamerysl who found the tag.
> 
> French title “débridé” : meaning both debrided (wound) and unbridled (often used with lust).
> 
> AU because I believe that the main heroes cannot be seriously hurt in the canon.  
> I am not a doctor and do not pretend to be one. This is written for HEROES in a FICTIVE universe: don't try any of this at home!  
> From Mortimer's pov because he insisted that opiates did not make Blake a credible narrator.

“99B Park Lane,” is the terse direction as Professor Mortimer enters the taxi. The driver nods and heads out without hesitation; the frowning, worried face of his passenger does not encourage conversation.

The professor is thinking about the last time he took a taxi a few days ago, leaving his job earlier than usual after receiving the terrible call informing him that Blake had been injured. He had arrived at the military hospital well after the event - where the captain had heroically rescued a political target from an assassination attempt and got a bullet in the arm while his team restrained the armed madman. received himself the projectile in the arm instead, while others had restreined the madman with the gun.

He had even arrived well after the surgery, because no one had thought of notifying him before Blake had asked explicitly. When he had entered the hospital room, frantic with worry, Blake was waiting for him, smiling but frightfully pale, a white bandage around his right arm. Mortimer had rushed towards him, grabbing his hand.

Still rattled by the fear caused by the news, Mortimer had shaken that hand with force equal to his regard for his friend, and the latter, paler by the second, had almost fainted - to the professor’s great shame.

This time the situation is less extreme, but Mortimer feels the same agitation. It is still early in the afternoon, and the traffic is moving along, but the professor cannot contain his impatience to get home. Frowning worriedly, he watches every intersection and the movements of vehicles from the window, as if he were driving himself. His heart beats faster every moment, anticipating with fear and desire the appointment that awaits him.

For a moment, he recalls the call he had received earlier at his workplace from Francis Blake himself.

_"Philip, when is the earliest you can get home ?"_

Mortimer had shuddered then, as he shudders now, with both impatience and apprehension. _"In one hour if I call a taxi."_

_"Please do so, I'll call the hospital to confirm my appointment."_

The conversation had been very brief. There was no need for more as they had already talked about this possibility at length. It had taken some time to convince Mortimer. All in all this situation was really not his choice, but it seemed to be necessary. Besides, if Blake is to find pleasure in this, Mortimer will leave to the job to nobody but himself.

Clenching his teeth, and concentrating on keeping that state of mind, Professor Mortimer turns his attention back to the road.

After he arrives and pays the fare, Mortimer quickly climbs up the stairs. Blake is not back yet. So much the better, thinks Mortimer, he has more time for his preparations, and to strengthen his mind. The first thing he does is to put on large quantities of water on the burners - the biggest pans - and he answers Mrs. Benson's worried look with an equally worried one. But what can they do? The doctor's orders are what they are, and she does not know what more Blake has asked of his friend.

The professor then goes up to the bathroom and gives it a quick once over. It is in good order. He removes a useless bottle from the sink before taking out thick towels that he spreads on the floor. In the middle of the room, between the sink and the bathtub, he places two stools, and on one of them he sets a large basin before changing his mind and bring ing the free stool closer to the sink and out of the way. He goes out again and return s a few moments later with a chair that he sets in its place.

For a few moments he contemplates the arrangements, then nods, before going to the closet where they store their first aid box. It is well stocked with bandages and various flasks, and Mortimer takes most of them out. He carefully arranges the tools on the table he had placed there the week before, so that everything is ready for use. Once again he checks that nothing is missing.

He goes back downstairs to fetch the boiling water, which their landlady helps him to carry up. She gives him a sympathetic and encouraging smile before leaving him for the final preparations.

" _It may be necessary to debride the wound if it closes too quickly, both to decrease pressure and prevent infection,_ ” Blake had explained . “ _In that case, I will have to go back to the hospital, but… if it were to happen, I would like your help for something else, Philip._ "

To prepare for the procedure, Blake had asked the surgeon for instructions: wet the lowest entry wound with hot water - but not hot! - to relax the flesh and facilitate the opening of the wound, and thus reduce the need to cut the opening anew.

That is what Mortimer is preparing, but also something else, for which Blake had asked for it in addition. _Blake likes to suffer, you knew that_ , Mortimer tries to reason with himself. And if the wound is to be cleaned, no one would take more care to see it done well than he. But it is not his job! " _I am a physicist, not a physician !_ "

Blake had convinced him in the end. After all, his fantasy did not really belong to the medical field, and more than anything else, it was something he wanted to realize with his lover. The possessive side of Mortimer could only agree: if Blake had to take pleasure in feeling his wound manipulated so, he wished it would be him and not some doctor who would inflict on Blake this languorous pleasure.

Armed with this conviction, Mortimer rolls up his sleeves and heads for the sink. Suddenly glimpsing at his reflection in the mirror, he stops and changes his mind, then removes his shirt and top before beginning to wash his hands with new resolution.

 

\-----------------------

 

The professor still has his hands under the water when Francis Blake shows up several minutes later.

"Philip," he murmurs as he arrives.

The professor turns to observe his friend. The latter has removed his jacket and shirt, revealing the white bandage wrapping his arm.

"Remove it all, Francis, you'll be more at ease." The captain nods and closes the door while Mortimer cuts off the tap water with his left hand.

"My appointment is at six," the captain answers.

While Blake undresses, Mortimer checks the temperature of the still-steaming water, waiting in the pots. It seems all right.

Resolutely the professor sits on the stool facing the empty chair, checks that the cup he had previously disinfected does not touch anything contaminated, then waits. A few moments later, the captain sits on the chair.

Mortimer only sees the white gauze under his eyes and he swallows before risking a fearful glance towards Blake. The absolute confidence he reads in those clear eyes reassures him, and they exchange a last nod before starting. Blake holds the fabric with one hand so that Mortimer can more easily undo the binding.

Carefully, the professor unrolls the fabric with his left hand, then drops the soiled cloths to the ground, and guides Blake's arm to extend it slightly down, above the empty basin. Finally, carefully, he tries to take off the last piece of tissue, glued to the wound at its lowest level. The dressing was changed the same morning and yet it adheres, so Mortimer does not insist. He grabs the cup that h e fills in from the saucepan to his left, and pours a few drops on Blake's arm, j ust above the elbow, well under the wound.

"Is it too hot?" he asks, raising his head to meet his friend's eyes.

Blake shakes his head. "It's not. Go ahead."

Mortimer nods to himself, then obeys, slowly pouring a little water on the skin, over the last square of gauze this time, but careful not to splash too high on the other side of the wound – at the back of the arm, where the bullet came through.

Blake flinches when the hot water touches the wound for the first time, and the cloth absorbing the liquid takes on a pinkish hue. But Mortimer pours again, more frankly this time, before releasing the cup in the pan.

Carefully he lifts the tissue that comes off, revealing the wound.

The raw flesh is somewhat red and oozes slightly. It is almost completely closed. Under the skin, however, Mortimer can see the pressure on the swollen flesh.

Putting the compress with the rest of the dressings, he picks the cup back up.

For long minutes, he patiently and copiously bastes the wound from above – never pouring directly over the injury - allowing the flesh to distend and the scaring to dissolve.

Concentrated on his movements, Mortimer scrutinizes the wound until finally the pressure wins and suddenly a corner of the wound rises, letting out a stream of serous fluid and a small dark clot.

Mortimer then lets out a breath that he did not realize he was holding back. He empties a new cup, this time directing the flow to the rest of the wound, and gradually the opening extends, by hiccups that let out more clear liquid and dark blood, reddening the contents of the basin.

This is where the surgeon's orders stopped. Mortimer nervously swallows and looks at Blake again. The latter has bright eyes - burning with a fever utterly unrelated to any weakness in his body - and looks at him with so much hope that Mortimer does not have the heart to disappoint him. Never mind if he has to play Saint Thomas to fill his lover with a divine ecstasy.

He then clears his throat before speaking to check Blake's resolution one last time. "Do you remember my requirements, Francis ?"

Blake nods gravely. "At any time, any of us can decide to stop if it's too much to bear." There’s a tinge of fear in his voice; the captain obviously fears that Mortimer will use this provision.

But the professor has no such intention as of yet, and encourages him to continue. "And?"

"You only touch the wound. And I may touch anything except the wound."

Mortimer nods then sighs nervously, seeking courage. For a moment he flexes his right hand which he had not used yet. Until now he had been holding it in a clenched fist under his chin, in a barely relaxed posture of the orthodox stance.

Again he takes up the cup with his left hand and floods the wound, before setting it down. He then firmly grasps Blake's arm, just above the elbow, with the same hand.

"Francis?"

"Do it."

Slowly, carefully, Mortimer extends his right hand to put his forefinger on the raw flesh, a first, slightly hesitating contact. From the corner of his eye, the professor sees Blake's torso move and he hears a dry inhalation, but Mortimer's attention is riveted on his finger and the strange sensation, warm and wet, on his skin.

The wound's edges are not smooth and the contrast between the shredded edge and the inflated flesh under which he feels a pulse is unlike anything he knows. Slowly, Mortimer slides this finger along the wound, discovering by touch the details that his eyes could only roughly describe to him, shaken by this intimate touch which makes Blake's whole body shiver.

Through touch he explores, letting Blake's sighs and shudders guide him, never taking his eyes off the wound, making sure nothing he does changes its appearance.

Gaining confidence, he gradually adds various degrees of pressure to his actions, going so far as to slightly roll the edge of the wound under the pad of his finger, releasing more liquid and pulling a sensual groan from the lips of his lover.

Again he releases Blake's arm - which does not move - to rinse the wound with water. Then he pours again, this time delicately raising the edge of the wound for the water to enter it, again drawing a whimper of contentment from Blake.

Slowly, Mortimer gets bolder; seizing Blake's arm again, he squeezes the muscle upwards with his left thumb, making the wound gape, and slips in the tip of his finger, pad first, taking care not to touch anything with the nail.

This time Blake moans openly, and failing to interpret the nuance of the sound, Mortimer freezes and turns his head to check his lover’s condition.

Blake looks completely defeated and debauched. Strands of hair stick to his forehead – beading with sweat - and he shudders, his eyes half closed and his mouth ajar. But when he opens his eyes, the intensity of his gaze has lost nothing in fever or ardor.

"All right?" Mortimer asks.

Blake nods and Mortimer delights in the desire he reads in those clear eyes. All is well. He may go on.

Slowly, Mortimer resumes his perverted caresses, prodding one spot to clear a clot that had become stuck, modeling his gestures on Blake's breathing.

Any notion of time seems to have disappeared and Mortimer cannot say how long it lasts. But when he raises his head again to look at Blake, without a word, the latter encourages him to continue.

Mortimer then lets go of Blake's arm again, and with his left hand comes to smooth down the path of the bullet, lightly pressing the intact skin onto the swollen flesh, releasing more liquid and dead blood. Blake's stifled complaint is longer this time, but lost to his painful pleasure he does not look at Mortimer who then proceeds to rinse and clear the wound again.

"Philip." The strangled murmur stops the professor again. Blake gasps now and his eyes are crazy as if he were on the brink of ecstasy, and indeed, when he draws his eyes on the body all covered with sweat, Mortimer realizes that Blake has seized the base of his straining sex with one hand to keep himself from climaxing before the professor has really realized his desire.

"Finish me," whispers Blake, and Mortimer nods.

Agitated himself by the effect he has produced in his lover, Mortimer moves a little less carefully this time, and slowly he sinks his finger into the wound as far as he can without force, while Blake's body shakes, flutters, and shivers.

The contact is more intimate than any other could be, his flesh is in Blake's flesh, his finger - as if it were his hand - in his lover's arm through an unnatural orifice, and Mortimer sighs before starting to withdraw.

But the mutilated flesh clings to his finger with a sucking effect, and he must pull a little more to clear the captured phalanx. Blake actually screams.

At Blake's outcry, Mortimer turns. Panting, the captain has collapsed on the chair, defeated and throbbing, stunned and helpless, his eyes rolling back, completely spent. Immediately the professor goes to his aid, making sure that he doesn't roll or fall over, and only the weak sigh of satisfaction at his touch indicates that Blake is not totally unconscious.

Pulling his stool beside the chair, Mortimer encircles Blake with his arms, letting their naked torsos touch and supporting the wobbly head on his shoulder. He holds him tight until he feels that Blake's breathing soothes and his strength comes back.

When Blake, with a fulfilled sigh, finally seems to be coming back to his senses, Mortimer glances at the watch he had set on the edge of the sink. They have plenty of time yet.

Tenderly, Mortimer superficially dresses the wound and, after placing a stool in the bathtub, slowly assists Blake to sit down there.

Armed with a sponge and the showerhead, Mortimer thinks he has plenty of time, while his lover recovers, to wash the sperm and sweat from Blake's body before he can, finally take him to the hospital.

  
\-----------------

 

Bonus.

 

"What do you mean, you took your morphine while I was getting our stuff for the cab!?"

"Come on, dear fellow, you don't really think that I would wish to lessen such an experience in any way?"

"I ... I ..."

"... an experience for which I can not express my gratitude enough, dear Philip."

 

**Author's Note:**

> With a thought for my first paper Love, for whom I cried with inconsolable tears the day I realized that he and I would never live in the same reality. This remarkable man, namely a suicidal depressive who seeks oblivion in drink, is also an infinitly unlucky masochist as one can only finds in novels. And when he falls down from pain, he gets up and still asks for more. Ah, this introductory chapter, I still tremble from it and can never read it without this shuddering exaltation. Damn you Dumas! And damn you more for the way you brought his death! Did it really need to be so desperate?  
> I must have been nine or ten years old when my heart broke forever.  
> Parents and future parents who read me, repeat after me: "Alexandre Dumas' universes are dark, and are certainly not children's literature! I will not let my children read him without supervision before they enter high school."  
> Because frankly, if we take the point of view of the mentor and not the hero ... This is the story of a young man who marries a criminal woman who passes her lover for her brother. Several months later, the husband realizes that she is a criminal who has already been branded (literally so) for it and kills her. Except that she is not dead, and that she becomes a lover of the hero - who, in bed, recognizes the mark, and making the connection with the story of his mentor, pushes her away. After a little interlude of war where our suicidal heroes will hold a bastion on the front line, picnicking under the bullets ... and fighting back by killing civilians (it's a civil war)... The mentor's ex, having seduced a future suicide killer into a political assassination, takes revenge on the hero by poisoning the woman he loves. The mentor then puts her down for good this time.  
> And what's more, if their political opponent had not been so fair play, he could have had them all under arrest and killed for it. Now tell me how such a story is found in category G !  
> And the sequels are worse!


End file.
